Sunday, May 28, 2017

Stranded

The tide is turning.
At a granular level this must be
apocalyptic.
I wonder absently
if the moon figures as some abstract villain
wreaking havoc on lonesome crabs
who scuttle desperately for cooler sand.
Do sand crabs tell stories?
I imagine between their horseshoe shells
and snapping claws there exists
some tiny spark of brain.
Is it enough to feel the fear
of the future being peeled away
by some distant foe too vast
to do more than shake a pincer at?
The moon does as it wills
and we must scurry on.
Inside of you I picture a blood red moon
pulling at each neuron in your brain
leaving them firing, haphazard, at each other.
I shake my fist at it
as pointless as a pincer
and watch you pull away into some darkened space.
Perhaps the world is cooler there
within your self-made burrow
but it leaves me all alone
in the crashing waves.

No comments: